Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (22 page)

  
“You
can’t
stop it…” Celyn shook her head resignedly.  “No one can stop
it.”

  
There was silence again.

  
“No,” he said, sullenly, “…perhaps not.”

  
He could feel her within his grasp, and would not allow her to slip through his
fingers.  Not now.  He measured his words carefully.   “The martial world grows
every day, consuming everything in a fire.  Soon, that fire will be all that
there is.  There will be nowhere to run from it.”

  
“It already has us.”

  
“True,” he nodded.  “I thought that I could escape and I was wrong.”

  
“Then why?” she whispered.  “Why are you doing this?”

  
He gazed at her mutely.  

  
“You would not be here if you did not already know the answer.”

  
Their eyes remained locked; the silence disturbed only by the ripple of the
blue flame swaying in the glass vessel.  He saw the crazed passion allay in
her. 

  
“The girl…” 

  
She looked away. 

  
“I cannot let it take her too,” he said.  “I will not.” 

  
Silence fell again.  He waited for her to speak, but by the frown lines forming
above her eyes he could see that she was slipping away from him.  It was too
much.  Too soon. 

  
Celyn quietly stood up.

  
“Where are you going?”

  
She didn’t answer.

  
“Do you even know?” he asked.

  
She took the canister off the table, tucked it back in her coat and turned
away.  Just as she turned, he shot to his feet and seized her by the arm,
causing her to stop and turn back with a scowl. 

  
“Do not do this…”

  
“Get – off – me,” she snarled and shrugged off his grip.

  
Seeing her walk for the door, the fire beat up in him again.  He could not let
her go.  He would not. 

  
He lunged toward her and made to grab her again, and as soon as his hand made
contact, he saw her body turn sharply and that was the last image he glimpsed
before the blow struck.  What followed during the succeeding second happened in
an unconscious flash of white, and when he came to a split-second later, blood
was issuing from an opening on his temple and streaming down the side of his
face, and onto the hand … clutched around the blade.

  
  He had Celyn pinned to the wall.  The tip of the blade’s edge was pressed
over her neck, his breaths rabid and juddering.  His face was inches from hers,
so that his own feral eyes scowled back through the reflections in hers.  The
instant before the blade would have torn through the jugular, a thought that
flashed through his mind that percolated into him like a chill:  He would have
sooner killed her than let her go. 

  
He clenched his jaw, stilling the sudden rise in fury.  The blade shook in his
lowering fist, dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor.  He stood
before her, never breaking his eyes from hers.  Then the wave of pain settled. 
He looked away, disconcerted, as though waking from a trance, palmed the point
of the throbbing over his temple and regarded the blood on his hand, then
looked up at her again, wanting to say something, nothing left to say.  He
clenched a blooded fist and turned away. 

  
The instant he turned, he felt a hand latch around the back of his neck and
pull.  There was another flash of white and next thing he knew, her mouth was
pressed against his and the rest of her body followed. 

  
Their teeth ground under the force of new passion, and the visceral mind took
hold once again.  He flowed with her rhythm, equalled her force, brought his
arm around her, one hand clawed the flesh on the small of her taut back and the
other dug into the roots of her hair.  He bent her to his will.  The blood
smeared his face, neck and chest, wherever her hands strayed, and he tasted the
blood on his mouth and hers, and tussled with her until the clothes pried off.

  
They fell together – him upon her – under the firelight, his groin thrust into
hers, his body hard for her.  When he felt her nails dig into the lines of his
back, the sting of it roused him back to consciousness.  He stopped, inclined
and stared at the shining eyes, wide with ravenousness, through the dark of his
own heaving shadow.  The flame danced over them.

 
  A last drop of blood fell from his brow onto hers, blending with his breaking
sweat.  And when he sobered and noticed that she had stopped too, he saw that
he had her exactly where he did not want her – in his power.  Her breasts
heaved furiously and he waited for her breath to yield before he yielded with
her.  Her hands glided softly over the lines of brawn from the base of the
abdomen up to his chest, around the bulge of muscle over his neck.  She drew
him in and he lowered and kissed the blood away. 

  
The azure mantle was drawn from the firmament.  From the saddle of two great
mountains, a sparkle of amber began with the looming sun, and the sparkle
ripened to flame, diffusing in rising hues from east to west, from saffron to
cerulean.  Saul sat on the edge of the bed and watched the early light swell
from twilight to dawn until the darkness was cast out of the sky. 

  
There was a gentle shift in the bedding. 

  
He looked over his shoulder just as Celyn turned onto her side with a
slumbering groan.  The white sheet slipped off the bare, scarred back down to
the deep curve of her hip. 

  
Were it not for the rise and fall of the sun, time would have lapsed from
existence along with the rest of reality, his soul unchained from earth and
flesh, soaring ever higher into new and untold bliss.  As he gave himself to
her -- and she to him --with each rise, fall, thrust and pull, he could feel
himself immersing himself ever deeper from the body to the isolated essence of
her, where he found that sensuality ascended to something far removed from what
he had previously thought of as mere “intercourse.”

  
Intercourse…

  
Such a clean, mechanical word:  A Commission word.

  
The red sun breached the line of earth and sky and the morning light beamed in
warmly through the glazing.  When he felt the bedding shift again, he gently
turned, lowered and brought his arm over her.  His hand glided up the strong
core to the soft breasts and he put his lips lightly against the arch of her
neck.  A sleeping smile came over her, and the texture of the skin against his
lips changed when his kisses strayed to the edge of a scar. 

  
He lifted his head and regarded her back, ran his fingers down the thick lines
of scar tissue.  Her skin twitched.

  
“What are you doing?” she moaned wearily.

 
 The sides of the scars were dotted with puncture marks.  The wounds had been
stitched.  It was an old form of suturing, and badly done at that.

  
“These do not look like battle wounds,” he said

  
“No…” she said.

  
“What happened?”

  
“I don’t know,” she said.  “They’ve been there as long as I can remember… and
longer.”

  
His finger stopped on the base of her back.  He lowered again, bringing his
lips to her shoulder, then settling his head gently against hers.

  
“It is different than the first time,” he said.  “Do you feel it?”

  
“Yes,” she smiled.

  
“Was it the same … with Malachi?”

  
Her smile softened with a sudden forsakenness.

  
“No,” she said, turning away.  “Eli was … complicated.”

  
“I did not mean to…”

  
“It’s alright.”

  
She turned over on her back and drew him gently into a kiss, ran her fingers
down the dents of muscle to his loins and regarded him.

 
 “This has been going on for a while, now,” she said.  “The Commission will
find out sooner or later.”

  
“It does not matter,” he said, shaking his head.  “The war is over for us.  Let
them judge us defected.  It makes no difference.”

  
“We’re still part of the system.  That’ll never change.”

  
“We do not need them or their blood money.”

  
“We’re dregs,” she stated, categorically.  “Money runs out.  Signets fade.  We’ll
lose everything, including our castes.  You already know where that road ends.”

  
“Things are different this time.”

  
“…What about Naomi?”

  
At this, he went silent…

  
They were interrupted by a high-pitched hum. 

  
He looked over his shoulder.  The cell was ringing on the bedside.

 
He reached over and sat up, opened his inbox.  It was a reminder about the court-ordered
appointment.  The meeting was in less than two hours in Milidome East Wing.  He
re-read the address and  put the cell down.

  
“I need another favour,” he said.

  
Celyn rolled over with a tired sigh.

  
“What is it?” she asked

  
“I have to be in Durkheim in less than two hours.”

  
She rubbed her eyes and squinted through daylight.   “How come?”

  
“It … is a long story.”

 
After the brief and uneasy altercation about Malachi, he thought it best not to
bring up the subject of Nova Crimea.  “I have to go.”

  
“I’ll take care of her,” she said.

  
He rose from the bed and got dressed.  She was asleep again by the time he left
the room.

  
Naomi’s head was bright in the light of the morning as he approached, quietly,
and leaned over her, drew the golden hair back over her eyes.  She turned over,
sniffled, her eyes parted ever so slightly and she murmured, drearily: “Saul…”

  
“I have to go, little one,” he whispered.

  
“Where?”

  
“I will come back.  I promise.”

  
“Celyn…”

  
“She is here.”

  
The little head nodded in a daze and she fell asleep again.  He drew the cover
back, stood and left, keeping his eyes fixed on her until the front door shut
behind him. 

  
When he emerged back onto the streets of Sodom, he was overwhelmed by estrangement
from the mechanical flow of the metropolis.  A whole era had come and gone
since he had last walked Sodom’s streets.  The capsule stopped at Haven Main
and the flyovers were teeming with martials making their morning rush for the
latest contract.  New day, new wars: fresh lives for the harvest.

  
The maglev filled and the chronometer over the platform showed 0833 as the
maglev pulled out of Haven Main, northbound to Milidome station: Durkheim.  He
pressed up against the glazing, looking over the skyline, along the bloodstream
of maglev rails and highways, down to the dark streets of the lower city.

  
Though he had been forced back into the flow of the war economy, he felt
light-years away from their world, and the anxiety of it gnawed at him all the
way through the voyage,
and
the 30 minutes he’d spent waiting in the
lobby on floor 235 of Milidome, West Wing.  When the white-suited receiver at
the desk admitted him and lobby doors closed, everything outside was closed
off. 

  
The lobby room was windowless, white-walled, and red-carpeted and a sallow
light shone from the low ceiling.  All the other seats in the lobby were empty
and the holoscreen in the middle of the room showed a recurring infomercial
from the Commission Neural Section about the wonderful psychosomatic advantages
of neural reprogramming; the latest in the Commission’s bid to perfect the
martial race.  His will to perjure himself through the next hour was rendered
that much stronger for it.

  
The volume of the infomercial declined and an AI voice sounded through the
lobby: “
Patient number1
,” the AI voice called.
 
“…
Martial
Vartanian
.
”

  
Saul looked up.

  
“
Please proceed
.”

  
The doors opposite opened.

  
He lingered a while before he stood up and walked over the final threshold. 
The ominous grey figure stood at the back of the white-walled office across
from the heavy desk, arms crossed at the lower back.

  
“Thank you, Miss Robinson…”

  
Pope turned to face him as soon as the doors closed.  Behind him was a wall of
clear blue sky, and the light’s glare was filtered through the photochromic
glazing so that the morning sun was a smooth red dish over the crescent
horizon.  

  
“Good morning, Saul,” greeted the augur voice in a heavy bass. 

  
He let thoughts of battle deaden him till his blood cooled, then held on to
that feeling and reciprocated the cold, blue stare.

 
“Good morning,” he said

  
A quiet smile appeared on the neuralist’s face.

 
 “Please, have a seat.”

  
Saul stepped toward the black desk.  The automated chair pulled back by itself
and he sat. 

  
“So, how are we these days?” asked Pope, taking his seat across from him.

  
“Well,” he answered, surely.   

  
“Good to hear.” 

  
Pope nodded slowly, then reached under his desk and took out a bottle and two
glasses. The clear liquid was poured and the neuralist kept his eyes on him
through the opaque lenses as the glass filled.

  
“It is early, but might I tempt you?” asked the neuralist as the last drop
trickled out.

  
Saul waited a moment before he reached out for the glass.  The ambrosia was
warm, smooth and sweet and burst with warm sweetness in the gut, then Pope
raised his own glass.

  
“Incident?” said the neuralist as his lowering glass clinked against the table.

  
The hollow eyes gazed at the blackening blemish over his left temple.

  
“Yes,” he answered.  “…Intercourse.”

  
Pope nodded slowly again and breathed in through his nose.  He could smell the
scent of jasmine on himself.  The dissecting eyes veered down to his hand,
around the glass.

 
 “I see you have cut down on tobacco,” Pope noted. 

  
“I have.”

  
“We adjusted your last prescription to replace the neurochemical pleasures you
used to derive from smoking,” he explained. 

  
“Thank you, for your help.”

  
“The pleasure is always mine, Saul.”

  
There was a stalemate silence as Pope took another sip of his drink. 

  
He sensed a darker purpose looming somewhere behind the hollow eyes.  He’d
assumed that he had been summoned for evaluation, but the neuralist just sat
there staring at him.

 
“Is something wrong?” he asked, boldly.

  
The question appeared to intrigue Pope.  His head declined and his lip curled. 
There was a glint of anatomy in the cobalt eyes, and the harrowing smirk
flashed across the ashen visage. 

  
“There
is
a matter of some importance I would like to discuss,” said the
neuralist.  “Something brought to my attention not long ago.”  Pope paused and
was as still as stone with his hands flat on the table op.  “I understand you
have not left your home in quite some time – before
today
, that is.”

  
That meant he was being surveyed.  He made a mental note of it.

  
“Yes,” he answered.  “I have not had much reason to leave.”

  
“Assignments?” asked Pope.

  
“The last one paid well enough,” he replied hastily.  “I would like to rest for
a while.  I am in no hurry to return to fight again.  A man can only fight so
long before his luck runs out.”

  
“It
is
a free world,” Pope replied with a nod.  “War is a free market.”

  
Pope drank again and Saul did not, and the silence continued awhile before the
neuralist put his glass down and leaned back in his seat, fingers laced under
his chin.